In all these catastrophes, she hadn’t been asked. Now she was. How could she have an opinion about such a fortunate shidach, one she’d just told Surale was impossible for poor girls like them? Her finger found a loose thread in the cardigan. She glanced at Reb Moskowitz. He was more than twice her age. His features were pleasing, not handsome—his cheeks rounded, his pale eyes small. But their corners crinkled when he smiled, which he did often. His gaze didn’t burn with the dark intensity Keyla had found in the anarchist Fishke’s. He certainly didn’t have the tall, broad stature that made Hedi feel secure under the protection of her goy. What Reb Moskowitz had was his importance, as every rich man had. He was probably the richest man in America.

He was also kind, she reminded herself. If her parents found him suitable, she must trust their choice. Dreamer though her father was, he sought the best for her.

Both men’s eyes were upon her, waiting for her to speak.

No nuptials will take place until I grow up, she told herself, and placed her hand on her heart to still it. And when she was ready, she would have a decent man for a husband, one who would share his riches with her parents.

Her tongue stuck, she managed to nod her assent.

“Wonderful.” Reb Moskowitz hugged Batya’s father. “Koppel, my future father-in-law, I’ll come over after Shabbat.”

Disbelieving what had just transpired, Batya didn’t turn to look at the back of the man to whom she’d just promised herself.

They walked to the new hut, where her father broke the news to her mother. “It’s done! He proposed and she agreed!”

“Are you talking about Reb Moskowitz?” Her mother’s eyes searched both their faces. She took Batya’s hand. Hers was cold and clammy. “Batya, did you hear it with your own ears?”

Batya nodded. Her eyes brimmed with tears, although she was unsure why.

“What did Reb Moskowitz actually say?”

“That I’m virtuous, not like American women.”

“What happened to the brides lined up for him?” Surale asked.

Batya brought her shoulders up.

Her father spoke. “You see, Zelda? God doesn’t inflict pain without sending the right medicine for it. Reb Moskowitz is the medicine for all our afflictions.”

Batya’s mother looked into Batya’s eyes. “Are you sure? He proposed without a matchmaker. What else did he say?”

“That when I’m sixteen I’d live with him in America.”

“He did say it?” Batya’s mother’s face brightened, and she clapped her hands. “Oh, Batya, even without a matchmaker, such a fine man as a match is what I hadn’t dared dream for any of my daughters.” She gathered Batya in her arms and kissed her cheek.